


Rock Bottom

by DodgerMD



Category: Elementary (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drug Use, Gen, Relapse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-26
Updated: 2018-10-26
Packaged: 2019-08-07 22:29:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16417211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DodgerMD/pseuds/DodgerMD
Summary: One-Shot. After his relapse Holmes comes home to the Brownstone. My approach on the gap between Seasons 3 and 4. Contains SPOILERS! for Season 3 Finale: "A Controlled Descent". I might or might not write a sequel for all three "missing" days.





	Rock Bottom

**Author's Note:**

> My mothertongue isn't english and I do this as a fun hobby in my spare-time, so please be gentle with weird grammar and/or spelling mistake. :3  
> Thank you and enjoy reading.

Holmes stared down at the silver case to his feet. He knew it was wrong. He knew it was just what Oscar had wanted. But deep inside him he felt a silent demon stir. More than ever. It also was what he wanted. What did it matter now anyway? Oscar was alive, yes, but Holmes knew very well what Gregson had told him a good while ago. He had ruined it. He had ruined it all and probably dragged Watson down with him. No, maybe Watson would be able to restore her reputation. She had nothing to do with this. Nothing to do with the failure that was him.

What did it matter? Once rock bottom was hit, there was no going down any further.

He picked up the silver case, stepped over the unconscious man to his feet and headed into the blackness of the abandoned tunnel. He had left the GPS on, they would be able to track the mobile he had dropped. They would find Oscar. They would get him to the hospital. They would find him severely hurt, but nothing lethal. He would make a full recovery. Sherlock knew as much, he however did not know if he would do so himself.

Putting the case into his pocket, he kept on walking, just briefly stopping, when he reached the dead body of Oscar's sister again. He looked at her. What a pitiful sight. What a cruel fate to look at the inevitable end of those who had looked too long into the abyss. He looked ahead again, staring into the darkness before him.

He who fights with monsters should look to it that he himself does not become a monster. And when you gaze long into an abyss the abyss also gazes into you.

Nietzsche came to his mind. It made him smile slightly to himself. A doleful, pained smile. How right Nietzsche was. How horribly right. He had disappointed everyone. Himself, the NYPD and most of all Watson. He was a failure, a failure in itself. He was not meant to function properly forever, apparently. Moriarty had known it and had her feeling for him not stopped her, she probably would've put an end to his pitiful existence by now. He wished she would have. All he wanted was to be gone. What did it matter anyway? Just this once. He already was an utter disappointment, he already had destroyed everything. Just this once, just this once he didn't want to feel it anymore, hear it anymore, see it anymore. Just this once, he wanted to dull it all. He could not stand it anymore. He needed it. Just this once.

It didn't take long for him to find a quiet spot where he set to work with an odd skillfulness that had been hiding inside him for all these years. He still knew every step to take, it all suddenly came rushing back to his mind, like it never had been gone. It was almost like in a trance, when he prepared the syringe. And he knew what would be awaiting him at it's bottom. Sweet oblivion. Oh sweet, dull, calm, silent oblivion.

He had forgotten about time. He must have fallen asleep. He couldn't remember. When he woke up again, it already was as dark outside as it was deep inside the tunnel. He staggered back out to the street, still feeling hazy and dizzy. The world was oddly quiet all around him. It took him a good couple of minutes to figure out where he was and how he would be getting back home. The busy streets of New York passed by him dully, when he slowly walked towards the next metro station. People took a step out of the way, when they saw him coming, at the station a woman shot him a judgmental glare, before pulling her child aside and walking to the other end of the platform. Even in his intoxicated state, he still clearly could see what was on all of their minds. Junkie! And by all means, they were right. What had he done? Why had he done it? Just for some quiet? Some oblivion? Had it been worth it? He didn't know and frankly, as of now, he wasn't able to fully care. What was done was done.

It was not until he actually reached the Brownstone, that Watson managed to creep back into his mind. Watson. He had disappointed her! She had believed in him! What had he done? He suddenly felt a pang to his chest. The thought of disappointing Watson hurt him more than disappointing himself ever could. He was about to turn and leave again, yet the door already opened. Apparently she had been waiting for him. He turned around again, tumbling against the doorframe, while he looked at her through glazed eyes. Her own dark eyes filled with what looked like a mixture of disappointment, worry and hurt.

"Sherlock?" she said softly and the softness in her voice hurt more than every yell ever could have. Why was she being so kind? Why was she not throwing all he had done to her at him? He had mistreated their sacred bond of partnership and friendship! Not only by going off all by himself, by beating up Oscar and by falling off the wagon and using again. No! He had taken her trust and stomped it to shreds with his feet and still, there she was, kind and gentle, lifting a hand to gently touch his arm.

He hadn't even noticed tearing up, apparently the drugs were still messing with him, for before he knew it, he was in tears, standing in front of her. Hardly able to stand looking at her. His whole body quivered, when he reached into his pocket and drew out the silver case he had stolen from Oscar, holding it out for her. She took it wordlessly, opening it a bit and closing it again. She already knew.

"Sherlock, it was an extremely stressful situation. You fell, that's okay, as much as you hate it, you are just human, you made a mistake, now you need to focus on what's ahead of you. Sherlock, are you listening?" she said, while he just stared at her through big, dilated pupils and eyes red from tears he couldn't stop from coming. Just human. He was just human she said and was oblivious to how much these two simple words hurt him. He didn't want to be just human. He didn't want to be weak. He didn't want to be a slave to his urges. He was Sherlock Holmes and still, here he stood, quivering, crying and swaying from the drugs still in his system. He was Sherlock Holmes and she was Joan Watson. They were not just anybody. She was not just anybody. He had disgraced them both!

Watson seemed to notice her words weren't exactly reaching anything and so she just took a more firm hold of his arm, tugging a bit to make him follow her inside. He obeyed without any questioning, simply tagging after her like a dog on a leash. Overwhelmed by his own emotions so very suddenly taking the better of him, hitting him so hard, he barely could handle it. Watson was yet again his rock of ages, his light in darkness, the one person to know him. The one person to have his never ending, deepest friendship. How did he deserve her?

"Come inside. It's gonna be okay. We'll make sure of it." she said softly and closed the door behind them.


End file.
